Darkness Unescapable
by Jedi-Aerin
Summary: Girl in torment. Guy saves from distress and falls in love. Eowyn/Faramir, so Aragorn lovers BEWARE!


Hey, all you few-and-far-between Éowyn lovers! I give you…more angst! Just what you needed, right? Well, this is (hopefully) one in a series of 'portraits', to use elelome's idea, to convey Éowyn's strange and hard life. Only the portraits are longer and fewer, and don't include much poetry. Only Creed. AAAAAAHHHH! So much fun in this font! Anyways, have fun, and anything is accepted. Flame me if you will, but give some criticism first you sucky a-hole! Ummm…sorry for Arwen-bashing. I love her almost as much as Éowyn, but of course this is from Faramir and Éowyn's point of view. Keeping in character! Don't hurt me!  
  
heheheheheheh…it never stops  
  
A/N- Alright, I am a newbie. I have always wanted to be a writer, but have never written anything remotely like a story (pitiful, isn't it?) because nothing inspired me enough. Well, Éowyn of Rohan changed all of that. I loved how she kept her strength alive in time of utter darkness (hence the name Darkness Unescapable) actually, the first thing about Éowyn that totally blew me away was her defeat of the witch King. I mean, all the elven-kings of the Noldor couldn't do what this brave, suicidal rohirrim woman did. (Sorry if I get anything wrong with the Silmarillion. I read it, i.e. skimmed, and I can't find my copy anywhere. On the other hand, the quotes from RotK should be rock-solid. I am just adding feeling to the words of the savior, J.R.R, and none of the characters are mine.) Thanks for reading, even if you don't review. It is nice to be read and loved, and I have never had that gratifying feeling before. Please let me experience it.  
  
Darkness Unescapable  
  
Éowyn daughter of Théodwyn lay feigning sleep, silently enduring her hateful existence through one more minute, one more hour, one more day. Women came and went, interchangeable in an endless succession of healers, none of whom seemed to realize that healing the body does not mean healing the soul. She lay, tormented by her own uselessness and seeming inability to die an honorable death. What good was she, a rough shieldmaiden from the illiterate lands of Rohan? A sword in battle, but no more. She spent her miraculously (or grievously, depending) recovered time in brutal self- analysis, berating herself and pitying herself all at once. High-hearted she had once been, and joyous for all her worrisome cares, but she had lost her spark, her inner cleansing fire, her torch in the abyss of utter darkness. It lay now to the East, carried by Aragorn, king of kings, man of unreachable glory, into the very shadows of mordor. Éowyn bitterly regretted the day she had first seen this raggedy king, sensing the awesome power of Westernesse hidden under the leaf of Lórien. Watching so great a man unattainable wrenched her heart anew. Wild, impossible fantasies grew in her mind, torturing her with the tragedy greatest of all the children of Ílúvatar- ungratified love. No stranger's love had passed to Éowyn's heart. Only Gríma's lust and Aragorn's pained understanding had ever reached her. She tried to let Aragorn go, tried to make herself treasure her will unburdened by love, but her lack of a soulmate ultimately won over and desperation set in. Indeed, the only time she had ever had a possible soulmate, she was but six years old and needed only the playful companionship of her beloved, adored brother. Éowyn now truly understood the need of a daughter for a mother. Éomer could not possibly fill the hole left by Théodwyn, who was Éowyn's ideal of perfect feminine quality, as well unthought-of for herself. Never learning the true compassionate art of being a woman from Théodwyn before she was taken away, Éowyn was forced to scrounge from her resources, learning from the men surrounding her. She learned the life of cunning, strategy, and feats of arms, but Éomer supplied her only hope. He was quick to righteous anger for his sister, and in his way could not protect her from the wiles of devious Wormtongue. She had had to maneuver cleverly to avoid the grasping, lecherous clutch of him, thus destroying her chances with any man in Middle-Earth while Théoden still required her services (see Say Me Not Nay! by I don't remember who, but it details the requirements of a shieldmaiden of Rohan.) She had jumped blindly but whole-heartedly into the business of a soldier, her heart renewed by her escape from Wormtongue. Then Aragorn and war had come, destroying her hard-bought happiness and replacing it with her old fears of uselessness and slow decay. Sadly, Éowyn drifted gradually and fitfully into sleep, trying not to think so many dark thoughts. She fell into dreams of Rohan and the home she would most likely never find again.  
  
Finally, even the strength of Éowyn, used to hardship and hard thinking with years of Gríma behind her, gave in, and she rose. The women of the houses were considerable healers, and knew best how to deal with a feisty patient, but Éowyn had reached her far limit and walked out. Free from her bed, she stood momentarily at a loss, but then decided to take up with the warden about release from yet another hated cage.  
  
'Sir,' she said, 'I am in great unrest and I cannot lie longer in sloth.'  
  
'Lady,' he answered, 'you are not healed, and I was commanded to tend to you with especial care. You should not have risen from you bed for seven days yet, or so I have been bidden. I beg you to go back.'  
  
'I am healed,' she said, 'healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease. But I shall sicken anew, if there is naught that I can do. Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing.'  
  
'There are no tidings,' said the Warden, 'save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul-vale; and men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief. A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield a sword. It is not thus in Gondor now, though once it was so, if old tales be true. But for long years we healers have only sought to patch the rents made by the men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them.'  
  
'It need but one foe to breed war, not two, Master Warden,' answered Éowyn bitterly, 'And those who have not swords can still die upon them. Would you have the folk of Gondor gather your herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies? And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.' Slightly shocked by her own words, Éowyn nonetheless decided they rightly expressed the immense pain and weariness of the world she felt. The Warden gazed at her, studying this rare gem that had come suddenly into his world. He would not allow her to leave it so soon without first seeing the joys in it to be had.  
  
'Is there no deed I can do?'  
  
'I do not rightly know,' he answered. 'Such things are not my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City.'  
  
'Where can I find him?' She asked, a breath of hope rising in the deepest, most truthful depths of her soul.  
  
'In this house, Lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know-' the nameless, unreasoned hope burst forth, small as it was, in hurried breath.  
  
"Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know.'  
  
From away yet, Éowyn could see a tall, shapely man striding unhurriedly through the walled gardens of that she had come to think of as her cage. He seemed thoughtful, but at the distance she was closing, she could derive no more. Faramir looked up, and saw two figures approaching him. One he had never seen before, and one he knew all too well.  
  
'My lord,' said the Warden, 'here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the king and was sorely hurt, and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City.' Faramir could barely contain his gasp as he set his gaze on the lady of Rohan. Never before had the sight of a woman so struck him before, unless it was the pained face of Finduilas his mother. The fury, anguish, doubt, fear, and beauty of the face of Éowyn had shocked him and stirred his sensitive, clear emotion. She rocked his soul to the core. In her turn, Éowyn was no less surprised by this noble man radiating a sense of power akin to that of Aragorn's. Something within her began to weaken, pass away in face of a new era. More than a little frightened by any weakening in her body, Éowyn stood motionless until she noticed in her turmoil that Faramir had dismissed the Warden and was now looking at her expectantly.  
  
'Do not misunderstand him, lord.' said Éowyn, 'It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on.' Faramir tried hard to conceal the dazzled look in his eyes, turning the emotion instead to great pity for the sorrow of Éowyn.  
  
'What would you have me do, lady?' said Faramir, 'I am also a prisoner of the healers.' The sudden tenderness of his words made Éowyn realize how kind this man must be, to pay attention to a lowly fellow patient, when he was the Steward of the City and had other things to attend to and think about. As she looked on him, she realized with utter certainty that this man could best any Rider of the Mark. Strength and gentility seemed to flow outward as one in him, a combination she found stunning.  
  
"What do you wish?' he said again, 'If it lies in my power, I will do it.' And he would try even if it were not in his power to do so.  
  
'I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go,' she said. Then the gradual weakening of her once-rock solid mental barriers escalated into a cascade of confused emotions passing through the holes in her walls.  
  
'I myself am in the warden's keeping,' answered Faramir. She was exquisitely beautiful, he thought. I could get lost in her eyes. Clear into my soul they peer. Quickly he returned to reality,  
  
'Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his council, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need.' Gentle reprimand and simple denial hit her with much greater force than Faramir's good council should have.  
  
'But I have no desire for healing,' Éowyn said for what felt like the thousandth time, 'I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden, for he has both honour and peace.' Éowyn felt now sure this would set her in his eyes as a girl not matured enough to realize the great tragedy of war, but only the joy in killing and saber-flashing.  
  
' It is too late to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength,' said  
  
Faramir, all the while admiring what her strength must be, 'But death in battle may come to you yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure the hours of waiting.' Faramir hoped that Éowyn had caught the implied 'together' at the end of his sentence. He, who had shared her feelings of restlessness and pitiful uselessness, was scared by her frank admittance that she wanted to die. Yes, dark days were to follow, but to not see the end of the Dark Lord he knew was coming...As he stared gently at this wonder; he saw a fleeting glimpse of something...soft? Almost tender in quality, it for a split second crossed the maelstrom of her eyes. Inside, the weakening Éowyn had felt slowly building as she talked to Faramir finally exploded, spurting confused, turbid emotion into whirlpools and waves. Of course, she thought, he would think her childlike, rebellious and immature. Need for this strange man to be drawn to her pushed her head down in shame, driving away her abrasive pride. Doubt, one emotion such as she had never experienced in her life before, struck her with the water pressure of the Fall of Rauros. She bent her head lower, tears forming. One transparent tear fell, vividly accenting this new emotion, one that she hated immediately. Impulsively, Faramir reached and cupped her chin, raising her head to its former height, as the tear left a scar-like stain down her cheek. Imperceptibly, he shuddered at the thought of her inward scars appearing outwardly. He smiled at her to hide the sudden grief of his heart. Her pain transferred to him, and both felt the companionship of shared misery.  
  
'My window does not look eastward.' Éowyn admitted her childish discomfort; even admitting to herself she only said it because of Aragorn. Aragorn…she would not think on him anymore! She fervently promised herself never to think on Aragorn in that way again.  
  
'Your window does not look eastward?' Ah, here was something he could fix for  
  
her, as he so desperately wanted to. 'That can be amended. In this I will command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking East. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me.' A diplomatic understatement if Faramir had ever heard one. His desire to know this strange woman with her strange sorrow filled him. To see her heal mentally in his 'care' would make his own, indeed, worthwhile. Then Éowyn raised her head in quiet disbelief, looking straight through his eyes to his naked soul once again. A blush rose from the depths to the heights of her face.  
  
'How should I ease your care, my lord?' she asked incredulously, not wholly believing in her subconscious (for this was the only spot in her mind that dared accept Faramir as being remotely interested in her at all) what he was saying. 'And I do not desire the speech of living men.' Éowyn needed no mind games at this point, or at any point. She had had enough frantically thinking through every word Wormtongue said in order to predict his next move. She felt that Faramir was not a diplomat in the political sense, but he did have the gift for turning words gently around, as a true diplomat should, in order to best present a situation.  
  
'Would you have my plain answer?' he asked, hoping his answer would be the right.  
  
'I would.' Emotion spread thickly between the borders of those two simple words.  
  
'Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere the darkness falls upon our world, but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.' Éowyn desperately wanted to believe him, wanted to be loved more than anything else, but her wary mind refused to give in until the last.  
  
'Alas, not me, lord!' she said, painfully, defacing herself, 'Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City.' with this she left, preventing herself hurt further. She needed no more pain in her life, and love was bound to give her more than her fair share of it. Not today, at least, she determined. She went in and slept, weary of endless ponderance.  
  
Faramir stood for several minutes frozen with desire, curiosity, pain, grief, a thousand other emotions stomping on his past perceptions till he felt he was getting a physical headache. That woman…she held the tinder and flint, he was the log. No telling what would happen.  
  
Faramir walked inside, finding the warden waiting for him.  
  
"I wish to know about the lady Éowyn, Master Warden.' The Warden nodded, not at all surprised by this request.  
  
" Not much do I have to tell,' said he, 'save that she is Éowyn, Eomund's daughter, niece to the late King of Rohan. Her brother is Éomer, the new King. Aragorn healed her in her distress, but there is one who can tell you more. Meriadoc Brandybuck is here, and he rode with he from Dunharrow. Speak with him, for the perian seem to notice much.'  
  
'Thank you, and I shall.' Faramir quickly got up and left in search of Merry. In fact, Merry had much and little to say. He told of his and Éowyn's brush-off from Théoden, and how Éowyn disguised as Dernhelm saw his distress and offered to set him on her horse. He accepted, though he did not know who Dernhelm truly was.  
  
'I had seen this Dernhelm only a little while before, and thought her unlike the other Riders. She was smaller and lighter, which would 'a course be on account of her being a girl.' Merry added, matter-of-factly, though Faramir knew Merry had not known this fact at the time.' She had this look about her. It was like she wanted to die, wanted to fight and die, I suppose. That look scared me all right. Then when she was fighting the Nazgûl she had that same look in her eyes. For a second I thought she did die. But they got her back in time, and she's on her feet again, I hear.' Faramir nodded.  
  
'Indeed she is, Master Perian, although not well yet.' Faramir was struck with a sudden thought. ' Merry, what do you know about Aragorn and Éowyn?'  
  
'Oh, well…I believe she rather fancied him. I saw her staring him down whenever she thought he couldn't see. And she was pretty desperate to go to Mundburg. Maybe Aragorn wouldn't let her go with him, so she took off with us. Lucky for everyone she did!' he laughed. Faramir nodded again, thinking hard. If Éowyn had 'fancied' Aragorn enough to try to go with him on the Paths of the Dead, she must have some issues to work out about him. But that couldn't be all, could it? He would have to find out, but carefully, because Éowyn was sensitive to 'mind games' and would not give anything away forthright, he was sure. A puzzle to busy his mind.  
  
  
  
Faramir woke with a sense of nervousness. His whole inner, secret core was shaken, reveling in and shying away from the events of the previous day. Heart fluttering, he rose, dressed, and walked to the gardens. He looked up slowly, not wanting to see if she wasn't there. But how could she not be? Had not she felt the strange electricity yestermorn? As he raised his head just enough for a clear view of the gardens, he saw a pale, almost glowing figure. Indeed it was Éowyn. Cursing himself for doubting her, Faramir tried not to race to her side. She looked up, a faintly surprised expression on her face, and then grinned, her first in weeks. He offered his hand, and she took it. Together they strolled under tree and over grass, talking of better days in Rohan and Gondor. Neither spoke of their greatest sorrows, either of Denethor and Boromir, or of Gríma and Aragorn. Instead they talked of horses, feats of arms, and things in their common interests. At times, one would grow silent, looking always to the East. Then they would stand, sometimes for an hour, watching the growing grey and black of Mordor. At this point they both said goodnight, leaving to their separate bedchambers in the houses, both secretly reveling in the other. Éowyn warmed up to Faramir quickly, noticing his gentle speech, strong will, and compassionate demeanor. His sense of humor was on par with hers, and the running joke was that now they had found friends in each other at the end of the world. (A/N-"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine." hee.) The electricity of the first day had not gone away, but intensified. Éowyn was careful around him because of the shock every time his skin happened to brush hers. Like Aragorn's…she despaired. He had ignored her, gone off to his elf-queen, so they said. An elf-queen that probably couldn't hold a sword without help, she thought disgustedly. What was a man doing with an elf, anyway? Silent tears sprang up, but she refused to shed them. Enough were spent during the dark hours of the night to waste them now. Wishing for Faramir next to her, she went in and tried to sleep. Out of the exhaustion of the newly healed, he fell down into faceless dreams.  
  
Faramir woke suddenly, a light sleeper. Screaming? He dressed frantically and raced out his door, then stopped. No…the heart-wrenching screams were coming from Éowyn's room. He dashed in, and looking around, finding no attackers. Instead, Éowyn lay screaming, sound asleep. He listened for a moment, trying to discern what she was saying in between screams. A word finally made itself heard, but not one he had heard before: "Gríma". He reached down, unable to stand the screams anymore.  
  
'Éowyn! Wake up!' Faramir shook her gently but firmly enough to wake her.  
  
Éowyn opened her eyes, suddenly conscious, and sighed in relief. She looked up, and almost screamed again, her throat sore. Faramir! What was he doing here? Had she had the screaming dream again?  
  
'Éowyn, who is Gríma?' the concerned seas of his eyes rolled in their turmoil.  
  
'Nobody…'she mumbled, futilely avoiding the painful question.  
  
'I won't tell anyone, but I don't want another scare like that. I thought Orcs were taking you away…''Faramir realized at that moment that he could never go back to his old life as unloved and hard as the mountains. Éowyn needed him as much as he needed her, especially now when both had emotional problems to work out.  
  
'Éowyn, I am here for you. Just tell me who this Gríma is. I do not like to see you so worried, even in sleep.' His sincere tone struck a bell in Éowyn's mind. He was the most forthright man she had ever met, besides Éomer, and yet not so. He was holding himself back, from what she did not know, but she appreciated the effort. She did not need another person insistent on invading where unwanted. For this respect, she decided to give in willingly.  
  
'Gríma is-was-my father the king's councillor. He lusted after me, and I was so afraid of even his lightest touch…' Tears formed at the memories of accidental run-ins with him, 'I got away from him, just in time. I became a shieldmaiden in the duty of my uncle, and swore I would take no man until the King no longer required my services. I took my own father's place as his humble servant. Gríma is gone, but he scared me so much…I was thirteen or so when he first began trailing me. A t first I didn't understand, because no one had told me anything about lust and I was so innocent…he drove me over the edge. Always he was striking either my brother or myself, yet softly and slowly so as to take control. Éomer is straightforward, and knows nothing of diplomacy or intrigue. He was very close to being trapped in Gríma's path, he could have been destroyed. Gandalf saved all of Meduseld and perhaps Rohan. Gandalf freed me from my cage, but somehow I have found myself in another one. Who shall save me from my own mind? ' Éowyn trailed off, speaking to herself. Faramir sat silent, digesting this story. It did explain the despondency, the helplessness she exhibited. Éowyn sat, reliving her strange story again, burying her head in her hands.  
  
'Faramir…I cannot take this thinking with someone in the room. Please, could you leave me to this? I can work it out.' It was the last thing Faramir wanted to do, but her strength even amid great sadness could not be gainsaid. He rose, reluctantly, longing to sit with her and comfort her however he could. Fighting the impulse, he left, closing the door as he went. Neither fell asleep at all that night.  
  
So the sleepless sixth night passed, and Éowyn daughter of Théodwyn rose in darkness. She crept outside, as she had done every day of her life, and watched the eternal lamp rise once again, perhaps for the last time. The End of the World was upon Middle-Earth, and who knew what would come of it? She stared, even as Théodwyn and Morwen of Lossarnach had done before her. Faramir crept behind, secretly delighted in this rare moment of tranquility come upon her. She turned and smiled.  
  
'I am not wholly unawares, even at this hour, oh Steward of the City.' She noticed him trying to stuff something behind his back.  
  
'Surely we keep no secrets, Faramir?' She stared curiously at him. Faramir then blushed furiously and brought out from behind him the blue worthy of lords, deep night accented with stars, a cloak of Finduilas. She gasped, drinking in the midnight hue.  
  
'I thought…it will be dark and cold today…and you so newly healed…' Faramir had never before stuttered. Éowyn seemed to bring with her new experiences for him as well as companionship he longed for. He strode forward, came behind her, and draped the amazing cloak about her thin shoulders. Stepping back, he saw a queen, valiant, unafraid, beautiful, and terrible, yet gentle and vulnerable.  
  
'Aniron lossetari*…'' he whispered.  
  
They stood together on the wall, silent. Mordor had pervaded their thoughts, and no small talk could shut it out. At last, Faramir could stand his own no more, and sought Éowyn's.  
  
'What do you look for, Éowyn?' Although he thought he knew well enough. She yet looked for the lord Aragorn returned. His body physically sank at this and he turned back to her hopelessly.  
  
'Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?' said she, carefully hiding her thoughts in ambiguous words, but too late, ' and must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away.' Faramir, drawing on his vast courage, suddenly decided to either end forever or begin anew.  
  
'Seven days,' he began, having her full attention, 'But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this end now, or lose so soon what I have found.' Éowyn did not dare to believe this. He could not mean…she decided to take the cautious route as she had all her life with men.  
  
'Lose what you have found, lord?' she answered finally, with smothered hope, 'I knew not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.' Faramir's heart sunk. 'My friend'? Yes, but he had admitted his need of her and she had stood unresponsive.  
  
'Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom,' said Faramir, reminding himself that Éowyn was not healed, did not know her full mind yet, he must be patient. His despair redoubled as the wind and hope died down to the East, his thoughts turning to the destruction of Númenor. Sound faded to memory, they stared hopelessly in a dying world, going onward into some silent tomb, forever moving on to doom and unknowable nothingness. The mountains grew around them, closer as they traveled ever onward, on and on…  
  
'It reminds me of Númenor.' The spell was broken. Sound rushed to his ears, joyous cacophony.  
  
'Of Númenor?' said Éowyn, wondering at the return of sound and life, as well as Faramir's odd statement.  
  
'Yes.' he said, although not knowing just why, ' of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.' Ah, the dreams of the clear-sighted. A gift not lightly taken, a curse as likely as not, but not so in this case.  
  
'Then you think that the Darkness is coming?' said Éowyn, almost vulnerably, dusting off an ill-used facet of herself. 'Darkness Unescapable?' Tremulous, she drew close, and Faramir felt the warm heat of her through the great mantle. This is what he longed for. He could not live without her. Her companionship, bravery, sadness, temper, beauty, will, humor, and tall grace mixed into the one colour that was Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan. Faramir realized he had used the elvish lover's privilege of renaming. Well, if he felt so, why should he not? He sank into her for a fleeting instant, then answered her question.  
  
'No.' He turned to look at Éowyn's calm surfaced eyes that hid so much, and said, 'it was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny, Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!' And then Faramir, son of Denethor Steward of Gondor, leaned over and kissed her lightly. Éowyn almost collapsed, leaning on Faramir's shoulder for support. He gently caught her around the waist and lifted her thin frame upright. They stood in utter silence, Éowyn shocked and helplessly joyous, Faramir triumphant and doubting no more forever the fate of the world.  
  
  
  
Up high  
  
I feel like I'm  
  
alive for the  
  
very first time  
  
Up high  
  
I'm strong enough  
  
to take these dreams  
  
and make them mine  
  
And the Ring was destroyed at last, and the third age was at an end. The golden, blissful days that followed had much for Faramir to do, and so after seven days that changed their lives, Faramir and Éowyn parted. Faramir was to prepare the City for the coming of its King as its Steward, and Éomer had called Éowyn hither to the field of Cormallen. But she grew discouraged.  
  
'Do not be sorrowful,' Faramir said, looking at her vivid face that held so many elements at once, 'for you and I will be together. Is not the Ring destroyed? Should not all be bliss, for Sauron is destroyed forever?' He saw the distressed emotion on her face and knew the saving of the world was not enough for her.  
  
'I shall not be blissful, having no one here to speak with,' she knew that she would say more, but knew not how to express it, 'Should I be one sorrowful in a land of joy? I should spoil the fun, but I will if you go.' She would, for she would not be subdued again.  
  
'Say not so, Éowyn. I shall return, and you shall be glad. Until then…' And he left, not wanting to turn around. Éowyn despaired once more, even in the death of the Dark Lord that kept kindred spirits near her. She wandered aimlessly, ate next to nothing, and slept not at all. Immediately, fearing a fatal relapse, the Warden begged Faramir to console she who would not be consoled by anyone else. He found her, a white wraith, rocking her head in her hands, on the wall facing East. Feeling actual pain at seeing her, he sat down slowly, and held the thin, cold body.  
  
Almost it had no soul.  
  
'Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?' Having little success admitting his soul to her, he would try bringing hers out, but slowly.  
  
'Do you not know?' Éowyn knew he knew her deep secrets of the night, and her traditions that kept her hopeful, and in that, alive. Why should he beat the bush, and not come straight out?  
  
'Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know.'  
  
'I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer!' Final despairing anger coursed through her, and onto its unlikeliest target. Faramir accepted the rebuke stonily and answered thus, 'Then if you will have it so, lady,' he said, ' you do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them.' Then Faramir took perhaps the greatest chance of his life.  
  
'Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?' The words barely squeezed past teeth and tongue. He had said the words he longed and greatly feared to say, longing to be counted as Éowyn's soulmate, and fear for her unpredictable reactions heading his way. In this she did not answer him directly, but answered out of great pain and prolonged suffering.  
  
'I wished to be loved by another,' she said, knowing it would hurt him, but needing to force him to see her pain and duplicity in loving two, 'But I desire no man's pity.  
  
'That I know,' he said, refusing 'no' as an answer until all was said, 'You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest there now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me Éowyn!' And she looked at him, grey storm clouds and grey tsunamis met and clashed, then combined sea and air as one. 'Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant, and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without any fear or lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?' This was the final time for this question. Once more not answered, and it would be asked no more upon the earth. But Éowyn daughter of Théodwyn, the valiant and cold ice queen of Rohan disappeared, becoming memory. In place stood Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, soulmate of Faramir. For here was her soulmate at last, after eternities of searching. A man she could confess to and admire and love without any fear or shame, but unadulterated, thrice-over returned love. At last the unknowable known, her heart understood and no longer in torment. With him secret thoughts flowed like mithril from the far mountains she had never seen. With him blood was no longer a juice for joy and songs of slaying, but precious and vulnerable. Never again could the salt-spray and the gentle grey rain be separated, until the Doom of Men strike. Steadily they now challenged the world.  
  
" I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun,' she whispered, gazing at the world anew for a second time, this time fearing to lose it, 'and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of saying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.' The grey connection locked once again, 'No longer do I desire to be a queen.' Then Faramir emitted the most joyous of sounds, the laugh.  
  
'That is well,' and well he was glad of it, 'for I am not a king. Yet I will wed the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ihilien ad there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes.' Openly, tears came to his eyes, so glad was he of Éowyn, his soulmate. He looked into the grey like his own, and saw like tears. The tears flew silently down both cheeks, then laughter stilled the flow.  
  
'Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?' she said, tears of joy and long-held sorrow released intermingling, 'And would you have you proud folk say of you: "There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to choose?' Mild desperation shown through her eyes, a faint mirror of what immense pain and sorrow had passed under them. Faramir saw the fleeting trace, and caught her up. Never again would she feel alone or halved while he lived. He and she would guard one another from the pain neither could bear in the other.  
  
'I would.' The two words had become a catalyst.  
  
If he had kissed her before, it was only rehearsal. This was closing night, all the glory and passion of Éowyn and Faramir combining into one beautiful creation. Sea and sky were as one. Joy such as Éowyn had never felt before rushed through the veins of her body, becoming her very blood. Faramir was her blood, one and the same, he hers, her his. She knew beyond all conceivable doubt that Faramir was the one. A fairy tale, one of true emotion and life which now coursed through shared veins. Joyous was Éowyn to see this day, when her torment ended forever and Sauron cast down. She could live life in peace, whatever came to her. Truly life had come back to her, and she took it in, glad beyond all hope.  
  
A/N- wow, I didn't realize it was ten pages! Sorry! This thing is longer than my eighth grade graduation paper! You never know what comes out at 3:30 in the morning. Please review, and tell me if you like my style, and if you want me to write more. Also please send a $50 check to…J/K. I will write more about Éowyn, definitely Théodwyn, and possibly Arwen and Celebrían. Well, see ya and…ummm…I WANNA GO TO MIDDLE-EARTH!!!!!  
  
  
  
  
  
lossetari- "white queen", I hope 


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